"I do believe, sir, that his brain began to go a year or more before he died."A wonderful recovery.I could hardly spare it as much admiration as it deserved, for I had to give all my mind to the steering.
In comparison with the hopeless languour of the preceding days this was dizzy speed.Two ridges of foam streamed from the ship's bows; the wind sang in a strenuous note which under other cir-cumstances would have expressed to me all the joy of life.Whenever the hauled-up mainsail started trying to slat and bang itself to pieces in its gear, Mr.Burns would look at me apprehensively.
"What would you have me to do, Mr.Burns?
We can neither furl it nor set it.I only wish the old thing would thrash itself to pieces and be done with it.That beastly racket confuses me."Mr.Burns wrung his hands, and cried out sud-denly:
"How will you get the ship into harbour, sir, without men to handle her?"And I couldn't tell him.
Well--it did get done about forty hours after-ward.By the exorcising virtue of Mr.Burns'
awful laugh, the malicious spectre had been laid, the evil spell broken, the curse removed.We were now in the hands of a kind and energetic Provi-dence.It was rushing us on....
I shall never forget the last night, dark, windy, and starry.I steered.Mr.Burns, after having obtained from me a solemn promise to give him a kick if anything happened, went frankly to sleep on the deck close to the binnacle.Convalescents need sleep.Ransome, his back propped against the mizzen-mast and a blanket over his legs, re-mained perfectly still, but I don't suppose he closed his eyes for a moment.That embodiment of jauntiness, Frenchy, still under the delusion that there was a "jump" left in him, had insisted on joining us; but mindful of discipline, had laid him-self down as far on the forepart of the poop as he could get, alongside the bucket-rack.
And I steered, too tired for anxiety, too tired for connected thought.I had moments of grim ex-ultation and then my heart would sink awfully at the thought of that forecastle at the other end of the dark deck, full of fever-stricken men--some of them dying.By my fault.But never mind.
Remorse must wait.I had to steer.
In the small hours the breeze weakened, then failed altogether.About five it returned, gentle enough, enabling us to head for the roadstead.
Daybreak found Mr.Burns sitting wedged up with coils of rope on the stern-grating, and from the depths of his overcoat steering the ship with very white bony hands; while Ransome and I rushed along the decks letting go all the sheets and hal-liards by the run.We dashed next up on to the forecastle head.The perspiration of labour and sheer nervousness simply poured off our heads as we toiled to get the anchors cock-billed.I dared not look at Ransome as we worked side by side.
We exchanged curt words; I could hear him panting close to me and I avoided turning my eyes his way for fear of seeing him fall down and expire in the act of putting forth his strength--for what? In-deed for some distinct ideal.
The consummate seaman in him was aroused.
He needed no directions.He knew what to do.
Every effort, every movement was an act of con-sistent heroism.It was not for me to look at a man thus inspired.
At last all was ready and I heard him say:
"Hadn't I better go down and open the compressors now, sir?""Yes.Do," I said.
And even then I did not glance his way.After a time his voice came up from the main deck.
"When you like, sir.All clear on the windlass here."I made a sign to Mr.Burns to put the helm down and let both anchors go one after another, leaving the ship to take as much cable as she wanted.She took the best part of them both be-fore she brought up.The loose sails coming aback ceased their maddening racket above my head.Aperfect stillness reigned in the ship.And while Istood forward feeling a little giddy in that sudden peace, I caught faintly a moan or two and the in-coherent mutterings of the sick in the forecastle.
As we had a signal for medical assistance flying on the mizzen it is a fact that before the ship was fairly at rest three steam launches from various men-of-war were alongside; and at least five naval surgeons had clambered on board.They stood in a knot gazing up and down the empty main deck, then looked aloft--where not a man could be seen, either.
I went toward them--a solitary figure, in a blue and gray striped sleeping suit and a pipe-clayed cork helmet on its head.Their disgust was extreme.
They had expected surgical cases.Each one had brought his carving tools with him.But they soon got over their little disappointment.In less than five minutes one of the steam launches was rushing shoreward to order a big boat and some hospital people for the removal of the crew.The big steam pinnace went off to her ship to bring over a few bluejackets to furl my sails for me.
One of the surgeons had remained on board.He came out of the forecastle looking impenetrable, and noticed my inquiring gaze.
"There's nobody dead in there, if that's what you want to know," he said deliberately.Then added in a tone of wonder: "The whole crew!""And very bad?"
"And very bad," he repeated.His eyes were roaming all over the ship."Heavens! What's that?""That," I said, glancing aft, "is Mr.Burns, my chief officer."Mr.Burns with his moribund head nodding on the stalk of his lean neck was a sight for any one to exclaim at.The surgeon asked:
"Is he going to the hospital, too?"
"Oh, no," I said jocosely."Mr.Burns can't go on shore till the mainmast goes.I am very proud of him.He's my only convalescent.""You look--" began the doctor staring at me.
But I interrupted him angrily:
"I am not ill."
"No....You look queer."
